


It's a lot like life

by loveinadoorway



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:26:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, I swear I don't know how these things happen.<br/>Lestrade gets drunk and... </p><p>No sex. Probably a one shot. Mmmmaybe not. We'll see. EDIT: Yeah, well, that one shot thing went the way of the dodo pretty quickly, didn't it? The no sex thing might follow suit.</p><p>Title from Depeche Mode, Master and Servant</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lestrade knew he should’ve stopped drinking about two pints ago. He should not have just gone over to the bar for yet another pint just now. He should’ve eaten before he started drinking. He should’ve just gone home, he should’ve been sensible, he should’ve behaved like a responsible adult.

He should’ve… just looked away.

What he definitely should NOT have done was stare at that taut ass in a pair of expensive pants. He should not have looked at that impossible silk shirt with its straining buttons. Should not have noticed how it made those strange, pale eyes shine. Should not have cracked that joke just because he wanted to coax a smile from those lips.

Lestrade ran his hand over his face. It was useless. Firstly, he was too old to behave like a lovesick teenager. Secondly, everybody knew Sherlock wasn’t into anything like that. Thirdly, it had been over twenty years since Greg had last strayed from the straight and narrow and safe. Too long, really, to be sitting in his usual watering hole, dead drunk with a hard on.

Tomorrow would be god-awful. He’d muddle through the day under the contemptuous glances of Sally Donovan, visibly under the weather. Or worse still, the consulting detective might drop by about the case. And nothing ever escaped Holmes’ attention.

A hand squeezed his shoulder. It was a sad comment on Greg’s stage of inebriation that he had neither noticed anyone closing in, nor had he jumped at the sudden touch.

“I think you ought to go home, Gary,” a rumbling baritone breathed into his ear.

Lestrade groaned inwardly. Of all the people to find him…

“Leave me the fuck alone, Sherlock,” he growled warningly. Would’ve been more successful, had he not had so many problems negotiating the ‘erl’ in the name. The L kind of seemed too thick and somehow refused to leave his mouth for the longest time. Damn.

A warm, hard body insinuated itself into Greg’s booth, pressing against the DI’s side, much too close and much too… alluring. Long, elegant fingers wrapped around Greg’s pint and pulled the glass away from him and upwards. Soft, damnably kissable lips touched the glass. The Adam’s apple in the v of the shirt’s open collar bobbed up and down, as Greg’s pint vanished from the glass.

“There now. Disaster mostly averted,” purred the insufferable man and looked at Greg with a strange expression on his face. “You’re being a bad boy, Geoff.”

“Wooooo… Would it be too much to ask for you to remember my name? It’s not that hard, you know,” Lestrade mumbled, but the fight had gone right out of him. “Especially for the most intelligent man in Britain. It’s G-R-E-G. Not Geoff. Not Gary. Not Gavin. And not George. Especially not George.” He blinked owlishly at Holmes. "NOT George."

“I know perfectly well what your name is, Lestrade. I know how you take your tea, I know what you like to eat, I know what you’re allergic to. But you know, I think I’ll just call you ‘pet’ from here on out. Will that be acceptable?”

“Pet? Have you gone completely mental?”

“Silence, pet. It’s not your turn to speak.”

And damn if that didn’t go straight to Greg’s dick.

When Sherlock’s right hand suddenly pressed down on the bulge in Lestrade’s pants, the DI should’ve jumped, yelped, protested, anything really, except that a needy whine that escaped from his lips before what was left of his brain had a chance to step in.

“I think we should leave. Wouldn’t you agree, pet?” Holmes purred, while his hand was pressing down again.

Greg just mutely nodded, then followed the taller man out of the pub.

And then the fresh air conspired with the gazillion pints. White noise.

When Greg awoke, his mouth tasted like something evil had crawled in there and died, his head was pounding and his stomach was lurching rather ominously.

He carefully opened one eye and the rickety old alarm clock with the cracked glass said 9 am. HIS alarm clock. His apartment. His bed. No Sherlock.

Of course no Sherlock. He’d dreamed it up. The insufferable consulting prat wouldn't come on to Greg if he were the last man on earth. Especially not... like that.

Oh shit, 9 am. He was late.

At 9:47, he rushed into the office, trying very hard not to throw up and not to look like he had the hangover from hell. A 50 percent success at best, given the pointed look Donovan shot him.

He slumped behind his desk. There was a parcel on it. He absent-mindedly ripped it open and a shiny, supple dog collar slid into his hands, together with a note.

He stared at it in utter disbelief, swallowed convulsively and then resigned himself to his fate.

“Thought this might look good on you, pet. 7 pm sharp, Baker Street. Best not be late. –S.H."


	2. 100 words on bad timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a good boy sometimes is not a good idea.

Lestrade ran his finger underneath his collar.   
Damn uncomfortable.  
He couldn’t even just loosen the tie and unbutton the top button of his shirt. If he did that, they would SEE.

He’d put that damn thing on when he was good and ready to leave. Good and ready to leave so he’d be absolutely on time. And then the usual thing had happened. Just as he was striding from the office, the call had come in. Dead body in SoHo.

And there he was, damn near choking to death on the fucking dog collar he was wearing under his shirt.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade stood in front of 221b Baker Street, trying hard not to panic. And trying hard to ignore the way every surge of angst made him harder.

He fingered his collar.

Seven, Holmes had said. It was damn near midnight. Not his fault, technically, what with the murder case and all that, but somehow Greg doubted that Sherlock would accept any apologies.

He took a deep breath and placed his finger on the bell. Before he had had a chance of pressing down, the door opened and a cold faced Holmes beckoned him inside.

When they reached the living room, Sherlock whirled around and hissed, “Which part of be here at seven pm SHARP was unclear?”

“There was a murder in SoHo and…”

“Silence, pet. On your knees.”

He surprised himself with the speed he hit the ground. God, that hurt. Maybe Greg should have listened to the voice of reason that had whispered to take it slow, not just instantly drop to the floor at that tersely voiced command. But apparently his dick pressed down hard on reason and so… the old man had hit the floor hard.

A cool hand brushed his cheek. “Good boy. That must have hurt, given the state of your left meniscus. “

“Yes,” Greg whispered, grateful for the touch that seemed to ground him, as he was slowly losing the grip on his usual behaviour patterns, maybe even his normal personality.

The long, elegant fingers were playing over Greg’s neck, then stilled completely as they brushed against the warm leather underneath his shirt.

“How long have you worn it?” Sherlock whispered.

“I… uh… I put it on shortly after six, when I thought I’d leave the office and come here,” Greg said, gasping slightly as the fingers suddenly tugged hard on the collar.  
And that shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. It felt like the collar was hardwired to Greg’s dick. He could see a dark spot on his trousers, where precome had seeped through the wool.

“I might be inclined to reduce your punishment for that. At least a little bit. But we shall see just how nicely obedient you will be now.”

As suddenly as the fingers had started their exploration, they were gone again. Greg couldn’t help but feel strangely bereft. He was floating through uncharted waters, or so it felt. Adrift, lost, helpless.

Holmes sat down on the sofa, sifting through a pile of magazines until he found what he had apparently been looking for. He opened it, leaned back and said calmly, “Greg, you will go to the bedroom, take your clothes off and kneel beside the bed.”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Greg breathed with difficulty, then laboriously got to his feet.

“And Greg…. Needless to say, the collar stays on.”


	4. 100 words on acceptance

As he knelt on the unyielding hardwood floor, his entire universe contracted to the erratic beating of his heart, the unsteady rhythm of his breathing and the few muted sounds that drifted over from the living room.

He felt utterly alone and improbably insecure. Helpless, even, in his nudity.

His hand strayed upwards and he gently fingered his collar. Somehow, that helped to reduce the panic that had threatened to overwhelm him.

He belonged. He had been claimed and ownership had been clearly stated.

And Sherlock would come soon and make everything okay.

All he had to do was wait.


End file.
